Revolutions: Aftermath
by D Willims
Summary: The night after the Apocalypse.


**Disclaimer:** I don't own the _X-Men _universe.

**Characters:** Jean, Professor X  
**Relationships:** mentioned Jean x Scott**  
Rating:** T  
**Summary:** The Professor makes his decision and Jean makes hers.  
**Word Count:** 1,470

**Notes:** Takes place immediately following the fall of Apocalypse, ignores the epilogue of Ascension Pt. 2.

* * *

**01. Jean Grey**

Everything was loud. Too loud.

They were all packed into the little office until it was painfully claustrophobic. Almost impossible to breathe. And everyone was screaming over each other, sucking the air out of the room. Trying desperately to announce their rage and pain over the chaotic din.

And they'd started to slip. To let their walls fall in their righteous fury.

They didn't mean to hurt her.

But they did. The pain started with an itch in the back of her head that had burst and spilled over. A white hot press of minds against hers, pounding against her skull. Salty tears stung at the corners of her eyes. She'd been here before. Over and over again, spinning out of control. Falling apart.

The Professor's gaze met hers through the crowd. _Breathe_, his voice whispered through her mind. A cool rush of air pushing the others back.

A fresh wave of ire welled in Jean's chest and flooded through her veins. In one violent motion she wiped the tears from her eyes with the back of her fist. The walls slammed back up. Pushing them out; pushing _him_ out.

His frown deepened and he turned away. He looked disappointed, hurt.

_How dare he_? The anger echoed through her. He had no right to be upset with them, had no right to feel pain. Not now, not when he was the one leaving them. What did he care about her, about any of them anymore? About helping them? Now that he was closing the Institute. Something had changed in him, made him unsure. It was "too dangerous" for him to stay.

Apocalypse had taken something from them, from all of them.

Thousands of thoughts raced through her head, each more frantic than the last. But it was being fourteen that she kept coming back to, hearing thoughts for the first time that stuck fast. Jean had thought she was going crazy, then. Her parents had thought she was going crazy. Sarah had been afraid of her. She had been _terrified_ of herself. Every stray thought, every surge of emotion had only amplified it until she was sure that she would tear her home apart. Rip her family apart. In those darkest moments, nothing had been easier than locking herself in her room, letting it shred her until there was nothing left.

And then Storm was just there. Strong and calm in the face of insanity. Her mind was a blissfully blank spot; her shield too strong for Jean's unfocused telepathy to claw at. Storm had offered Jean a home at the Institute, a safe space where she could learn control again. Everything would be okay again, she'd promised.

Nothing would ever be okay again.

The Institute was closing. With so many young mutants out there, unaware and afraid and out-of-control…

It was like he was asking the world to spin out of control. To let themselves tear them apart until there was nothing left. Not of them, not of anyone.

Jean could imagine nothing more dangerous than that.

"Enough." Jean pushed herself from the corner she'd hidden in, rose to her full high in one graceful motion. Her hair swirled around on her shoulder, caught in a little telekinetic breeze.

Rogue—ready to leave and hand on the door—was the only one to notice. She narrowed her eyes and held her breath. And her hand had stopped mid-turn, waiting.

Jean felt stronger.

"I said. Enough!" With the last word, everything in the office shuddered. Lights flickered. The windows flung themselves open, ripping the locks clean off. Pens scattered, rolling off the desk and clattering to the floor. Every book jumped from the shelves before slamming right back into place. A heavy paperweight snapped clean in half.

This time everyone turned to look at her. They were finally quiet. So excruciatingly quiet that she could almost hear the static of her telekinesis flooding the air.

The silence was almost as deafening as the cacophony.

Scott was the first to speak, "Jean…" His voice was uncharacteristically small and timid. He was afraid.

Of her.

She couldn't say that she blamed him. Not really. It had nearly killed him the last time she lost control. The foundations of the world had shaken. He brought her back that time. But he wouldn't always be able to.

And she could see it all so clearly in his eyes, through the thick ruby quartz. She pressed a careful hand against his cheek. Let her strength and her surety wash through their bond. If they were alone, she might have kissed him. _It's okay. I'm okay…_

Jean looked away from Scott, turned her gaze on the Professor. She was very deliberate with her next words. "You took me in when I had nowhere to go; you taught me control. Professor, you saved my life. And I cannot—I _will_ not let you throw away that dream. The Institute will not close."

All eyes were on him, now.

The Professor cleared his throat. "I don't think you understand, Jean," he started. "What Apocalypse did…"

But she wouldn't let him finish. She'd already heard it, already _felt_ it. He had let some of what Apocalypse had put him through over their connection in the chaos.

It had been an onslaught. Apocalypse had picked at the Professor's mind, pulling it apart. Showing him just how dangerous his telepathy could be, all the ways it could destroy his students. For the first time, the Professor was confronted with the very real possibilities of the damage he could do. Of the damage Apocalypse could make him do.

And Jean found she still didn't much care about his excuse.

"_You_ don't understand, Professor. It was you who brought us here for a purpose. To teach young mutants, to protect them, to save them. If you want to turn your back on us now, there's the door." Jean pointed.

The doorknob slipped from Rogue's fingers as the door flung itself open. Rogue stepped back, rubbing her wrist as if she'd been hurt. She stayed as quiet as the rest of them.

Then, softer, Jean added, "You thought you weren't coming back…" Her voice broke.

Scott's hand found hers with a sudden urgency, holding tight. Lending her his strength.

"And you gave me the school." It was the first time she'd said it aloud. She had thought, before, that if she admitted to it, Apocalypse would win. But that didn't matter now. Apocalypse _had_ won; he'd taken everything from them. "You asked me to look after them, and that's exactly what I intend to do."

Something in the air shifted.

After a tortuously long pause, the Professor nodded carefully. "You're right. The Institute _is_ yours, Jean. I will call Ms. Wheadon in the morning to draw up the paperwork."

It wasn't what Jean had _wanted_ him to say, of course. She wanted him to fight, to stay with them, to just do something. Anything but give in to Apocalypse.

Numbly, Jean sat back down on the couch, pulling away from Scott. From everyone. She leaned forward, breathing deeply; she thought she was going to be sick. Her fingers gripped the edges of the cushions tightly. It was all she could think to do, to anchor herself to reality. The pattern on the carpet seemed to shift as she watched. A sob shuddered through her as the door clicked shut behind the Professor.

She was only faintly aware that some time had passed and that she was alone now. Someone had settled a blanket over her shoulders. And when she sat up again, after a steadying breath, she saw that someone had left some sweats on the edge of the Professor's desk. Her desk, now, she supposed.

For the first time, she was acutely aware that she was still in her uniform. Sand and sweat clung awkwardly to her skin. Grateful for the distraction, she stood and grabbed the sweats off the desk.

Still a bit shaky, Jean walked back to the attached bathroom. She cleaned herself as best she could with a washcloth and rinsed her hair in the sink. Then she changed into the sweats. With exact precision she folded up her uniform and set it to the side of the sink.

When she looked in the mirror, she felt almost normal. And she still looked like herself. Her hair was more tangled than usual, but she fixed that with a quick finger combing. Other than that, though, everything still seemed normal.

It wasn't normal. Nothing would ever be normal again.

But, she thought maybe, for a minute, it would be okay if she didn't face it just yet. She made her way back to the couch in the office and curled up in the blanket. All she needed was one more minute.


End file.
